( Why is it everybody he befriends can fly? Maybe Geralt just has a thing for angels. Dean can relate. But never mind about angels or butt sponges — although, it feels necessary to say that those two topics are completely unrelated.
No running water makes his mouth scrunch up in disgust, and he gives Geralt a scrutinizing once-over, as though re-assessing whether or not he's gross. It's the fact that he's playing attention right at that moment and not glancing around like a bored teenager that allows him to react in time, so in a way, those stupid sponges actually saved the day. Rome wins again. )
Oh, shit-
( And the fact that Geralt would be absolutely fine and could totally probably handle a fall like this with only maybe a broken bone or two doesn't cross his mind. He's in immediate Mom-mode, like when someone in the car in front of you slams the brakes too hard so you stretch an arm out to seat-belt your buddy in the passenger's seat.
He dives, a rapid-fire descent toward the ground that would normally make him piss himself, but his focus isn't on the swiftly approaching jagged rocks. It's on Geralt's forearm, which he clasps quickly and grips, wingspan spreading, to slow and then reverse their descent.
He doesn't so much set Geralt down as he inelegantly sends them both sprawling back onto the top of the cliff. Look, he's not a graceful flier, and this blonde son of a bitch is heavy. )
no subject
No running water makes his mouth scrunch up in disgust, and he gives Geralt a scrutinizing once-over, as though re-assessing whether or not he's gross. It's the fact that he's playing attention right at that moment and not glancing around like a bored teenager that allows him to react in time, so in a way, those stupid sponges actually saved the day. Rome wins again. )
Oh, shit-
( And the fact that Geralt would be absolutely fine and could totally probably handle a fall like this with only maybe a broken bone or two doesn't cross his mind. He's in immediate Mom-mode, like when someone in the car in front of you slams the brakes too hard so you stretch an arm out to seat-belt your buddy in the passenger's seat.
He dives, a rapid-fire descent toward the ground that would normally make him piss himself, but his focus isn't on the swiftly approaching jagged rocks. It's on Geralt's forearm, which he clasps quickly and grips, wingspan spreading, to slow and then reverse their descent.
He doesn't so much set Geralt down as he inelegantly sends them both sprawling back onto the top of the cliff. Look, he's not a graceful flier, and this blonde son of a bitch is heavy. )